


Return: A Mitch Monroe Story

by A_Mass_Effect_Writer



Series: The Collective Tales of Rogue and Synth Pop loving Mitch Monroe [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Pop Culture, Romance, Thriller, Time Travel, Turians, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Mass_Effect_Writer/pseuds/A_Mass_Effect_Writer
Summary: Mitch Monroe is a man out of a time long forgotten. A man of unknown occupation, he is thrust back into the world he left to repay a debt to an old friend. When the job turns complicated, and a new friends life is at stake, Mitch must make a choice, one in which the lives of those he cares and once cared about hang in the balance.





	1. Secret Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy Folks! This is my first ever fic for this site, and boy am I excited to get to work. I've been writing this off and on for the past few weeks after reading a fics based around original turian charachters. I hope that this will ad to the list in a meaningful way. I hope to stand out in my utilization of music.  
> Other than that, any comments that you guys could share would be greatly appreciated. Feedback will be very useful in fine tuning my writing process. With that being said...enjoy!

**Chapter One: Secret Journey**

**The following is an entry in the Memoirs of Mitch Monroe up until the time cut; a self published book of reflections by the man himself.**

**Earth-1986**

I left when I was 14 and made a lot of stupid decisions. One of which in particular was causing me to flee across state lines in my Dads’ ford pinto. I had one vague goal in mind: to start anew. I was going to hit California, a drive for sure, but I couldn’t exactly go back to Ogden, Utah. Especially now. My father, a man who favored liquor and fisticuffs over family, through some act of God, got custody of me. I barely got to see my mother. He was no help in raising me, the checks from her often going towards the destruction of his liver. I had to pull jobs around town to put dinner in the microwave and purchase cassettes for my ever-amassing collection. But that didn’t matter now. I borrowed a key to a friend’s vacation home, and I had 500 dollars to my name, enough to start a new life. I just had to wait. By now I was in Nevada, well clear of the people searching for me. It was just me, the road, and a copy of Toto IV on cassette. I jammed it into the player with a satisfying chunk and hit play. Last song side two. Africa. The drum beat flared up, the synth coming in as the car sped through the empty highway. As the chorus was about to start, an angular craft screamed overhead, everything in the car distorting. I looked out the window as the ship, onyx like the night scooped up over a butte and into the stars. I shook it off as too much caffeine, and continued driving, speeding towards Reno. But something was wrong.

The road was fading away, now cracked. The small city filled with enormous skyscrapers. Lights were darting at skyscraper level. What happened? Did I jump ahead to 2000 or something? I sped up, pushing 100. I was on the outskirts, and I guess my speed drew some attention. I still remember the sirens. Several cars…flying cars, were pursuing me, I kept my pedal to the metal, rounding corners, catching glimpses of the world around me. Neon and fluorescent light brightened the road, depicting various figures. I lost traction on the neglected road, and careened around a corner, straight into a post jutting out of the ground. The engine hissed something awful. I was screwed. I dashed across the seat, to the glove box. A Smith and Wesson revolver sat there, always loaded (my father had some issues with people around town and kept it at the ready). Now, I didn’t want to use the damn thing, but I grabbed it anyways. My father had taught me well (one of the only things he taught me). I limped out onto the street, my Nike Vandals scuffling on the cracked concrete. One car landed, shooting what looked like to be a group of some form of pods onto the ground, which unfolded into humanoid figures. They looked like something out of a sci fi film, clunking and whirling to life, a centerpiece on their head glowing red.

“Good evening citi- “their collective robotic voice was cut short, as I fired a shell into one of their glass faceplates. It took the other a brief second to process, but it was too late, as I fanned the hammer, sending three slugs into its chest. It erupted in a show of spark and circuitry, giving a valiant display, before engulfing itself in flames. More lights set down on the ground, revealing themselves to be squad cars, with R.P.D etched on the side. A very overweight man, balding with a mustache that looked as if it moved several inches upwards, he could have a full head of hair, got out of the one closest to the front. He was accompanied by several other men, brandishing rifles folding out of nothing. I set my sights on the first man, pulling back the hammer with a very loud click, and squinting down the sights. The man’s wrist was enveloped in an orange cylinder, which he spoke into.

“I am Chief Robert Draymen. I work for the police force. You have violated multiple laws, including disturbing the peace. Who are you? Why are you driving in an antique?” The last word rang true with me. Antique.

“Where am I?” I said, tears choking up my words.

“You’re in Reno, shit head,” yelled a cop from the back, causing Robert to shoot him a death glare.

“Don’t listen to Rodriquez. Look, just drop the gun, okay? We will talk about all this craziness, have a few laughs.” Maybe he was right. I lowered my gun, causing them to move in, a thought then popping into my head

"Stay the fuck back," I practically yelled, the gun raising sharply again, causing most to step back save the chief who still stood a few feet away, the streetlights casting over an iridescence that surrounded him, a sort deflector shield like from star trek I loosely hypothesized.  _No fucking way. This can't be real._

“Kid you need to calm the fuck down. We aren't gonna hurt you," the chief's voice warbled, indicating years behind a desk. Must have forgotten what it was to stare down the barrel of a gun

"This shit is fucking insane," I huffed under my breath, swinging the gun wildly. My vision was now starting to blur from the tears.  _No way. This is impossible_  

"I know. Believe me I do,"  _he didn't_ "Take a deep breath. In..." I breathed in, the gun lowering. "Out..."The gun still clutched in my hands, but no longer pointed at anyone. 

“What year is it,” I cocked my head to the side. His eyes widened, His brow grew sweaty. Something was wrong.

“W-why does that matter? Look, just drop the gun. We’ll talk about it la- “I rose my gun to his temple, causing the two men flanking him to step back.

“Either you tell me the year right fuggin now, or your brains get splattered on the pavement,” I shouted, my voice cracking.

“2164,” he mumbled fearfully.

“Bullshit, It's 1986.” I yelled almost about to pass out from the sheer intensity of my situation. Thoughts bounced around my head. 178 years? Everyone I knew is dead. This had to be a dream. No other explanation made sense. All those thoughts were cut short when the sound of a shot rang out, knocking the gun out of my hand. I was jarred to say the least, buying time for someone to move in and strike me over the head with the butt of a rifle.

“Welcome to the twenty-second century motherfucker,” was the last thing I heard being said from Rodriquez, before passing out **.**

**_ 15 Years Later. 2179. Unknown Location.  _ **

The metallic whirring of a droid humming to life on _The Inferno_ , a refurbished Turian recon vessel (a cross between a corvette and a frigate). The droid resembled vacuum robots from earth, with a hastily attached robotic arm, and some miscellaneous stickers of various characters from pop culture scooted around the wood paneled deck, up to the captain’s quarters, triggering an automatic door, fitted next to the main one, roughly the size of a cat door. Its arm folded to compensate as it entered the dimly lit room, its sensors glimpsing the man sprawled across his bed tucked in the corner. No lights were on, so it was going off entirely on memory. It turned exactly 90 degrees and shuffled towards the wall on the other side of the room, a complex shelf of hundreds of cassette sized bricks. Reading through the calendar in a millisecond, the robot found the date, August 11, 2172. A Tuesday. That meant Hall & Oates. Its arm unfurled, and scanned the shelf, before locking onto a tape. _Voices-_ 1980\. Arguably their best album by some. The tape was quickly removed from its plastic coffin, before the robot rolled over to the tape player, the center piece of the man’s entertainment system, situated squarely in the wall opposite to him. An offshoot of the arm triggered the eject button, before the tape was flipped to side one, and subsequently deposited in the now open cavity of the music player. This was pushed shut with an audible _ker-chunk before_ the volume was cranked up to a manageable seven. Then the robot hit play.

                A man’s eyes blinked open to the sound of the drum beat and subsequent uplifting piano of _Kiss on My List._ Must be a Tuesday. He rolled out if bed, clapping his hands, which illuminated the cabin in a warm light. Walking past his worn leather chair and desk, he stood in front of his wardrobe. A push of the button caused the doors to unhinge, a rack of shirts and pants scisored out. He decided on a faded black t-shirt with the image of a jumping Pac-Man accompanied by his title and a pair of grey jeans. He took a pause to listen to the harmonization of the song, before stepping out of his cabin. The room was toward the right of the ship, as he still utilized the cabin of the old captain. However, he made extensive modifications to all areas of the ship except the bridge. For example, instead of a crew area resting across from his cabin, there was now a living room/kitchenette, and he turned the galley into a small workspace. Other than that, everything in the front section, like the bridge, a second crew area, and the lower area where the cargo bay rested remained unchanged. His bare feet clanged dully against the metal deck, as he crossed into the kitchenette, and poured himself a cup of coffee. As the machine whirred to life, he heard Hal powering up.

                “Good morning Mitch,” the ships AI said flatly, in the voice of Douglas Rain.

                “Good morning Hal,” Mitch said as he took his cup and walked to the bridge, the front window giving him a good look at a red gas giant surrounded by debris, sticking out sharply in the blackness of space. “What do you got for me today,” He took a sip.

                “We are on course to the coordinates provided by Mr. Kelnar.” Mitch nodded and stared blankly.

                “Patch me through,” he deadpanned.  A hologram of a volus in a plain white suite with a red stripe running down his right and left arms appeared in a shaky connection on the deck.

                “Mr. Monroe! Did you find the coordinates,” he said in an overly-excited manner, a voice akin to a nasalized Jeffery Dean Morgan, unusual for a Volus.

                “Oh, I found them. There’s nothing here. It’s just a grave yard,” his eyes darting to ships ripped apart.

                “My point exactly. Pirates in this region refer to this place as the pit. No ship that enters ever returns,” he flatly spoke.

                “Well that’s just great! Tying up loose ends, are we?” Mitches tone of voice rose sharply, his T’s dropping showing a Utah accent. He was a man who didn’t like games, especially before he finished his morning cup of coffee.

                “You know me better than that Mitch,” he chuckled “My other sources say that if you look closely,” Felnar brought up a display of the debris field, “There is a perimeter. Ships just stop working after a certain point, the point that you are under a kilometer from right now, hence the coordinates.”

                “Get to the point.”

                “As you humans say, a little birdie told me about a Batarian Hegemony intelligence and r&d station that went missing after Torfan got the shit kicked out of it.  And guess where its last location was.”  

                “This system,” Mitch spoke with mock shock, crossing his arms.

                “Yahtzee,” The Volus paused “That was correct right,” the Volus cocked his head to the side inquisitively.

                “Most people say bingo in scenarios like this but whatever floats your boat,” Mitch chuckled.

                “Our guess is after the station lost contact, they suffered a catastrophic event. Raided? Life support failure? Either way they drifted one planet down to this one, and the ships started piling up.”

                “So how do I get in?”

                “The ships encompass a ten-kilometer area. You will go EVA from them to the station and find a way inside. We both know that won’t be a problem for you,” his tone suggested years of working with Mitch.

                “What am I looking for?”

                “Their main servers. Grab whatever you can. Information on the hegemony is going at quite a high rate these days,” he chuckled again, for a reason that was lost to Mitch. But he didn’t really care. All that mattered was his paycheck. 

                “Payment,” the one word was said with enough resolution to cause the volus to jump. 

                “What we agreed on,” his hologram leaned forward to stare into the human’s eyes. 

                “Alright,” the human shrugged and disconnected the comm, and began walking to the back of the ship. He turned his attention to Hal, “Maneuver the cargo bay to be pointing at the target.” The computer responded with manipulating the controls at the helm, making it look like a ghost had taken control of the ship. The ship spun a full 180 degrees and reversed in a motion more akin to delivery trucks than recon vessels. As it did so, mitch slid down a ladder and made his way to the cargo bay. It was mostly empty, save a few boxes, several empty (minus one) lockers, an armory, and a mysterious tarped mass tied down securely to the deck. He slid his locker open, slipping on his combat boots and fur-lined pea coat. A halved cylinder, about the size of an oil can, and a recon hood were all that was left. He clipped the cylinder, a modified shield capacitator that he could control from his omni tool to his pants. With the hood in his hands, he pulled it over his face, and tapped the lens a few times, illuminating both in red. He heard the locker shutters open, a mechanical arm gesturing Mitch’s wakizashi toward him.

                “Come on Hal. We’ve talked about my no flat line rules.” he sighed and flailed his arms in frustration

                “It never hurts to be prudent,” he drowned. “Pirates operate in this region.”

                “You heard Wheezy Mchazmat. Pirates specifically ignore this area,” Mitch grinned in mock intellectual triumph. This was followed by a few moments of awkward silence, as Mitch stepped forward and took a cylinder off the shelf dodging prodding arms that forced his duel Phalanxs towards him. “Cut it out. I’ll take a shock baton if it will make you happy, nothing more”  

                “That will be sufficient,” Hal droned. Mitch followed with mimicking a robot’s arm movements. This was followed by more silence.

“Tough crowd,” Mitch murmured as he slammed the override for the bay doors, the shields blocking the vacuum of space. He stepped out to the edge, resting his arm on a control console nearby. “Plot my jumps,” several blue waypoints, three to be exact, were spread out, one right out the gate, one by the debris field, and one in the middle of the dead zone. Mitch took several steps back and readied to run. 

“Hey Hal, play me something…rad” He paused as the drone whizzed back into his room, ejecting Hall and Oates in favor for Sports-1983. The drones mechanical arm clicked broadcast. Mitch heard the opening track, accompanied by a heartbeat.

“Huey Lewis. Excellent choice,” he commented as he sprinted and dove out of the bay, in time with the synth pounding in. The second he hit the waypoint, he slid up on his omni, depleting 25 percent of his cell in one burst, the force coursing over his shield and out the bottoms of his feet. If one were not watching closely, it would seem like biotics were at play, not the wonders of custom shield modulation. The energy pushed him onwards as he approached the debris field. Mitch gripped onto the side of the hull.

 “ _They say the heart of rock and roll is still beating_ ,” coincided with this movement as the chorus flooded in. A complex mix of flips and spins ensued as Mitch maneuvered himself through the crowded mess of debris. His second point was in the center of a ship split in two. He hit his omni in time with the second chorus, following a line mentioning the flash of LA rock. The burst cut his reserves down to 50 percent, 25 of which were required to maintain his shields, the only thing preventing him from a nasty cosmic sunburn. As he passed through the ship, he had a clear view of the station, shaped like a spinning top. He noted its massive set of satellite dishes and Artillery cannon giving a militaristic vibe, despite the large chunk missing from the station. The third chorus stuttered as he passed through the last point, triggering his jump. The sudden burst of speed rocketed him forwards and he hit the side of the station, rolling over the side. He nearly lost his grip as he bounced over the reflective panels. He caught himself on a solar panel and began inching himself towards a hatch. 

“How am I doing Hal,” Mitch wheezed as he gripped onto a section.

“I would suggest going for the central core. My scanners are not as accurate at this range, but I can assume that it should be around the center of the ship, due to it being called the central core.”  Mitch laughed.

“That was pretty funny Hal, I’ll give you that.”

“I do not joke Mitch.” Hal droned on, the sentence could sound sarcastic

“Sure you don’t,” Mitch staid with a stifled chortle. He continued onwards, his hand gripping to the hatch and turning the handle. If he weren’t in vacuum, there would have been a hiss of decompression, but other that his own heart beat and the Huey Lewis song fading out, there was complete silence.

“It is dangerous for me to not have scanner capability. I would suggest that you go for the command center first, to disable whatever I field is preventing me from moving in,” a slight tone of worry was in his voice, something very uncommon for an AI like himself.

                “What are you worried about? This is a derelict station. We’ve been over this. The people in this station are probably dead due to decompression. If you could see what I saw, then you’d have noticed the big ass hole right in the middle of a commons area,” Mitch’s had a slight amount of arrogance in the words he spoke. Afterall, he had ran ops like this since HAL was no more complex than his calculator app on his omni.

                “Automated defenses do not require atmospheric pressure to function. That is why I let you settle on the shock baton.” The AI’s voice suddenly switching to scolding. Mitch sighed.

                “Alright. You have a point,” The hatch finally opened, and he pulled himself inside. He was immediately met with pristine conditions. White walls and piping surrounded him. But what surprised him the most was the gravity. And the lights. He shook it off as backup generators, or the core never powering down in its transition to a new orbit. He carried himself with swagger, boots clunking on the floor as he walked down the empty hallway to central command. The door mechanism spun, gears twirling as it hissed open, revealing an empty bridge. Mitch strutted to the first console he saw, the omni tool materializing on his palm. He swiped towards the empty console, a ball of what looked to be plasma crossed with computer code. The screen immediately lit up, a set of commands blinking in green text on a black background. By no means did he design it himself. Most of his tech he bought. Mitch was okay with computers when it suited him, but by no means was he a technological genius. He pressed the letter f for Show Systems and Y to confirm. A blocky set of schematics ensued, flickering by as he clicked through with the arrow key. He missed the dish and had to scroll back, sighing under his breath as he quoted Get Smart.

“Missed it by that much,” He hit enter and another final command ensued. “Terminate Y/N?”  A childish grin could be seen plastered across his face if it weren’t for the mask. As he hit enter an alarm went off next to him. A wall console’s Batarian script was translated. Break Time Over: Second Shift Starting. Mitch backed up from the console slowly, scanning the room for possible entry points. As he did, he felt the unmistakable barrel of a predator pistol pressed against the back of his head. He groaned in stupidity.  “Of course, its occupied. Why wouldn’t it be. Hell, the lights still were working. They should have burned out years ago.”

Mitch’s omni tool glowed involuntarily as the door hissed closed, and his right eye displayed the view from a security camera. He was flanked by three Batarian pirates he first thought, until closer examination. Each of which wore plain black armor, most likely duelist due to the patterns. The one in the middle wore a modified umbra visor, accounting for his other two eyes. Definitely not pirates.

“I have locked the door and blocked communications, both from your mask and on the bridge” Hal droned, “Lethal or Non-Lethal?” Even though Mitch was no longer a part of…them, he still liked to use proper channels for engagements. It helped him justify what he did, even if he no loner carried himself in the same manner.

“You already know the answer. Non-Lethal,” Mitch practically growled.

“Alright,” Hal had enough control to open the vents and space the poor bastards. But that would mean death, and Mitch only took a shock baton for a reason. The Batarian spoke after a good minute of silence.

“Whoever you are, you have invaded the property of the hegemony. If you comply, you will not be harmed, and released into alliance custody, pending trial in a Batarian court of course. If you don’t, we will not hesitate to empty our thermal clips.” Mitch stood still, his dead eyes hidden behind red glow. He did not have a lane to move, even if he wanted to. He needed one to drop their guard.

“Hello, can you hear me,” The Batarian’s rumbly voice inquired. He signaled to his men, as he stepped forward, gun beginning to lower. It passed his neck, chest, and finally torso, as the Batarian was within two feet, his men flanking him. That was Mitch’s que.

In one fluid motion, he ducked down to confuse the Batarian’s subordinates, only to rise abruptly with his elbow pointed. Striking the visor, causing it to shatter, Mitch sidestepped to his left, leaving the Batarian on the right little time to make a clear shot. Grabbing the subordinates gun and pulling away his arm, he flipped it to reveal his joint capsule, the only uncovered bit of the Duelist Armor, a clear design flaw. If an end piece had been there, Mitch wouldn’t have been able to first stun his opponent with a jab to the throat, before bringing his elbow down hard on the joint, snapping it with a hideous pop, the Batarian yelping in pain, before being thrown to the ground. The last assailant stood, angling the gun for a shot. Mitch responded with a front roll ripped straight from Aikido, disorienting the gunman. Springing from the crouched position, Mitch’s legs wrapped around the Batarian’s torso, the added wait throwing him off balance. He hit the floor with a thud, as mitch backhanded him across the second eye connection on his left side, knocking him unconscious. Mitch stood up, brushing off his jacket. He followed this up with walking in between the batarians, knocking them out with a kick to the head, contradicting the almost finessed dance like style of his pervious actions.

“Scan em,” Mitch said as he cracked his back, the last syllable strained. A series of beeps ensued, as the normally lightning fast HAL now relying on a mask instead of ship to station scanning.

“Their wounds are not fatal,” HAL spoke, almost sounding disappointed.

“What do I have for time,” Mitch spoke in between stretches that were more akin to an Olympic sprinter than to someone of his profession.

“Ninety seconds until they wake up, 120 until they crack the door,” HAL calculated, as Mitch walked over to a vent cover, struggling to pull it from the wall. He stepped back, readying to take a running charge as it automatically opened.

“I’ve worked with worse times. Mark my destination,” An orange waypoint blipped onto his Hud as he climbed into the vent, a square just wide enough for his shoulders to move if necessary. He debated quoting Die Hard, but it wasn’t the holiday season yet, so he thought against it. Beneath him, there were a multitude of maintenance gaps in the venting, allowing him to see the bustle of crew members and guards alike.

“ _I’ll have to discuss the differences between an abandoned station and one still funded by the fucking Hegemony_ ,” Mitch thought to himself. Onwards he went, gripping his hands to the sides of the vent and scrunching up his core to avoid metallic bumps that would give away his position. When he was within a four-meter vertical drop, Mitch spotted his arm up and punched the vent on its corroded joint, causing it to snap. His movements were like a snake as he slithered through the gap, gripping his hands onto the vent and pausing to scan the floor. Once he was satisfied with the lack of traps, Mitch dropped down into the middle of a row of servers. They were monoliths, red lights blinking on and off in sequence. The amount of data going through them must be mind boggling, Mitch thought to himself as he pressed onwards, keeping his steps light and sparse. That’s when he saw the cables. They were massive varying in both color and length. However, they all had one thing in common: their direction. He decided to follow them, coming to the epicenter. A black cylinder with a small window ran up out of the floor, covered in connection points. Within this cylinder lay a small black tube with an input and output, Batarian script scrawled everywhere.

“Can I get a scan HAL,” Mitch tapped his commlink, the strange object locked within his gaze.

“It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” HAL paused to analyze the object “From what I have processed all the data within this room is sent to the object and stored there.”

“Is it dangerous,” Mitch asked with a tone of uncertainty.

“It isn’t explosive and is not biohazardous. From what I can tell, there are no security measures tied to the object directly.”

“From what you can tell? What’s that supposed to mean? Give me a probability,” Mitch groaned, readying for an obscenely low number.

“95.62 percent,” HAL calculated.

“Oh. That’s not terrible. I’ll take it.”

“Mitch, there are pressure sensors in there. You may not get electrocuted when you grab it, but it will set off alarms,” HAL’s sharp analytical voice switched to worry.

“Its ok. I’ll get to be like Indiana Jones,” Mitch lifted the gate and reached his hand in, humming a John William’s esque tune under his breath. He snatched the object into his hands, sighing in relief as no alarm went off. Walking to the door, he was nearly deafened by a screeching tone, lights in the room flashing red. Mitch groaned, half hoping to see a shift change so he could walk out and find another air duct. His head slowly turned as he looked at an adjacent wall console. _Alert! Intruder Alert! Data is Compromised._

“Fuck,” Mitch cursed under his breath.


	2. Escape (The Piña Colada Song)

Mitches feet pounded against the deck, the metallic thung ringing through the pristine walls. Through some act of God, he was able to avoid most of the troops, opting to temporarily duck into a musky smelling exhaust grate. Was it hot as hell? Sure. But it was better than being tried in a batarian court and mining helium-3 until you either die or pay back a work debt impossible to reach.  
“Where are my exits HAL,” Mitch whispered harshly into a mic, his steps stopping at an intersection of pathways, illuminated in dull LED light.  
“Take a right and continue past the barracks. It’s the only way to the hangar.” The familiar voice with an attachment to airlocks spoke dully.  
“You kidding me? Why can’t I just use a maintenance shaft,” The midwestern accent sounded agitated.  
“If you want to be sliced into perfectly symmetrical pieces by a laser grid, then go ahead. They’re in lockdown. Most likely going to be scrambling fighters in the next few minutes.” The sentence was cut off by a single guard, who rounded the corner, the mercenary mask meeting Mitch’s. The assault rifle was raised and a mix of batarian grunts were spoken into his internal mic. A volley of rounds followed, Mitch countering with a simple raise of his arm. The shield capacitors were depleted in one burst, a sphere taking the brunt of the blast, all before Mitch could even break his stride. After all, nothing was going to slow him down.  
The word must have gotten around quite quickly, something mitch would applaud if it didn’t mean a bunch of four eyes shooting at him. This wasn’t exactly his ideal morning. He jutted his wrist downwards as he ran, an oily black baton enveloped in sparks expanding in his hand. Three stood in front of him. Their weapons raised and chattered out a series of crackles that echoed off the walls. Not breaking his momentum, mitch’s feet briefly left the deck, causing him to scuttle awkwardly on his back, narrowly avoiding the fire. He swung out violently, the sparks jumping savagely from the baton and sending the batarian screeching to the deck. He spun around the assailant in the middle, the baton striking the face of the parallel gunman, a spray of saliva and blood spraying in an arc against the wall. As the baton cleared the leathery face, mitch swung his elbow back, catching the final gunman in the jaw. He pulled his weapon from him, and swung the butt into his gut, the batarian wheezing.  
Footsteps pounded down the deck, metal clinking on metal. The fact that they were armored popped into Mitch’s mind. He propped up the dazed batarian against his knee, ducking under him and propping the rifle down the corridor. They fired with inaccuracy that could rival a storm trooper, the rounds bouncing against the walls off of the batarians shields. Mitch fired twice in differing directions, the rounds striking the gunmen in the knee caps. The Pac Man shirt wearing assailant tossed the rifle carelessly to the side. More steps pounded towards him from both sides. Mitch breathed heavily through some grunting, raising his heart rate. His boots matched the cadence of those moving towards him. The shield capacitators now fueled from the kinetic energy of his strides, mitch swiped a few commands into his omni. Neural shock. A trick he picked up off of a weapons smuggler out of Omega. They rounded the corner in an almost perfect line, their weapons changing from standard avenger assault rifles to heavy typhoons. How they got N7 tech was a mystery to him. It didn’t really matter. He swung his hand at them, a crackling bolt of blue electricity arching into the middle gunman. It spread through the helmets of the batarians, anguished growls echoing off the walls. Mitches steps slowed as he paused to step over the smoking armor, pausing midstep to scan. Their vitals were good, as far as he could tell.  
“Good Enough,” He thought to himself before resuming his sprint, the corridor branching off again.  
“Left,” HAL deadpanned.  
“Left? You sure?”  
“Did you just ask one of the most advanced navigational artificial intelligences if they were sure?” HAL almost sounded offended.  
“You know what I mean,” Mitch was flustered. Anyone could come around the corner.  
“Yes. I’m sure.” HAL’s usual monotone voice emphasized the last word with particular volition.  
“Alright,” Mitch threw up his hands in defeat and took off down the left corridor, a large green door of four parts chittering open in front of him with a hiss. He was now in a high-ceilinged room, large enough to fit a corvette class ship. A mass effect field haze ran the perimeter of a gap the size of the room at the opposite end. Empty blackness and debris drifted by in front of him. The now too familiar sound of boots slamming surrounded him. Some were maintenance workers, brown overalls stained with oil and clutching pipe wrenches. Others were light infantry, barely in their undersuits and angling shuriken pistols. Must have just woken up. All in all, there were 14 of them. Too many to take on at once. Mitch was in a ready position, his shock baton in one hand.  
“HAL, get me out of this,” Mitch’s tone of uncertainty was more than present, it was palpable. His visor beeped, a crosshair bouncing about and splitting up to target three of the batarians. Two maintenance and one infantry. They were in a near perfect line, the infantry standing near a low pile of crates and the maintenance workers flanking him.  
“This is the most direct path, and has sufficient cover if you move low. Get to the bay and boost out. The trajectory will have a 64.90% chance of carrying you to the ship.”  
“I don’t like those odds,” Mitch said, not feeling any better about his scenario.  
“It’s the best you are going to get,” Hal said as he queued Mitch’s omni tool, a burst of electricity firing towards a group to his left, sending them flying. Mitch exclaimed a flurry of curse words, the unexpected retaliation spurring him to dash across the hanger, bullets pinging on the deck around him. The crates were slick, allowing mitch to swing his hands out and slide across on his rear, the soles of his boots colliding with the face of the infantry batarian, attempting to clear a jam. The gleaming black gun was now in Mitch’s grasp, his free hand sliding across the bolt, clearing the jam and cycling in the jutting thermal clip. He swung the pistol around, angled downwards, and let out a burst. The rounds pierced the damaged shields, striking shins and thighs, sending a cluster of batarians down. As both maintenance workers charged, pipe wrenches ready, Mitch aimed and was met with a click.  
“Can’t trust volus manufacturing,” Mitch thought to himself as he flipped the pistol around, using the hand guard as brass knuckles. Metal collided with teeth. The pistol was dropped for the pipe wrench held in the batarians loose, stunned hands. The now pipe wrench wielding human’s jacket flapped as he spun, the head of the wrench colliding with the second workers abdomen, causing him to wheeze. The handle was brought down on the back of the head of the first worker, knocking him out, before mitch readied for a final swing. The little grabby bit of the wrench cracked the batarians jaw. A sound similar to a bag of bricks hitting the floor echoed across the bay. But Mitch didn’t stop.  
“Get the bay open HAL. I’m going to be there in under a minute or two,” Mitch used his forward momentum to dive through the barrier and trigger his capacitator, launching him forward and away from the chattering of gun fire. He maintained the speed, darting towards the debris field. His comm beeped, to which he tapped his mask.  
“Go ahead,” Mitch said in a casual voice, despite hurdling through the vacuum of space.  
“I am detecting an influx in electromagnetic energy, all focusing on the cannon. The ship is in range judging by my calculations,” the robotic voice quickened.  
“Time?”  
“40 seconds,” Curse words were hurled but not heard in the empty vacuum. The ship was within his sight now however. The debris field passed by, a section of metal grating almost slowing him down. With 20 seconds left now Mitch had to make a last-ditch effort.  
“Get the door open HAL,” Mitch grunted out, the cargo bay sliding open. He glanced down at his omni, depleting 70%, before getting hit with a warning alert.  
“I’m sorry Mitch, but I can’t let you do that. You’ll fry.”  
“Deplete 65%. I just need it to hold for a few seconds,” HAL didn’t respond in words, rather a beep and the bar decreasing slightly to 65. It fired with a force greater than a normal blast, rocketing him ahead and into the ship’s bay. Mitch tumbled. His body rolled across the grating of the deck, his hand snatching the mask off. “Punch it,” he yelled at the empty room, it responding with the engines humming to life. A rush of power surged through the ship as Mitch threw himself up the ladder and into the cockpit. The cannon on the station, barely in view, glowed green. It was readying to fire. The Inferno, banked hard to the left, a silent blast of green barely missing the left wing.  
“They are readying fighters. Where should I jump to,” HAL’s calm voice was out of place.  
“The Citadel,” said an exasperated Mitch, who collapsed in the arm chair in the cockpit. The ship increased in speed, planets and stars turning to a blur as the ship rocketed off towards a relay. 

________________________________________  
The bar in the lower east end of The Wards was for more, salt of the earth people, if you will. Going by the name Cantina del Polo, it was seen as a hive of scum and villainy. And that was by The Ward’s standards. A nightclub owner could get shot and people would go about their business (a common occurrence for down there). But Cantina del Polo was closed today, to the undiscerning viewer. Five individuals occupied the building. Two sat across from each other. One was a volus, three soldiers of varying armor, all sloppily painted green. They were clearly loosely regulated but fearsome to say the least. Across from all of them sat a human in a members only jacket, grey jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors(that rested upon the table). Strands of unkempt black hair hung over his face.  
“Do you have it,” the man spoke in a relaxed tone.  
“Mitch dear boy, of course I do. But I need those downloads first.” The volus spoke with an urgent tone.  
“I’ll do you one better,” Mitch flung a satchel on the table, opening the flap to reveal a pulsing green object. “That right there is a Batarian data core. At least that’s what I think it is. HAL couldn’t translate for me so I’m just guessing.” A man in the back gasped.  
“Jesus Christ. Those things have trackers you know. We’ll have batarian mercs on us in- “He got up to walk to the window, unsheathing his rifle.  
“Not in this case. I hit a dark site. I’m on the Citadel. If they wanted to hit us, it would be in broad daylight with half the ward watching. They wouldn’t get out of here alive,” Mitch scoffed.  
“That’s good enough for me. I’ll get my guys from data and processing to offload this. You did good Mitch.” He paused. “Now, your payment,” The volus pushed a box across the table with a check mark on the side, his stubby arms only moving it a quarter of the way. Mitch opened the box, the dull fluorescent lights reflecting off the canvas.  
“These original? You know I don’t mess around with reproductions,” Mitch feigned mock concern. His employer knew how to get things. Things he wanted.  
“Of course. One of my guy’s lifted them off of some house DJ living in some chateau on Noveria.” He gestured to the turian, who shivered in response  
“Noveria? Piece of cake,” Miles scoffed at the volus. “Try breaking in and out of a Hegemony Black Site.”  
“I couldn’t have known,” If a volus’s face could darken, it could be seen at this moment. He raised his hands in defense. Mitch crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. His eyes became sullen in an instant.  
“That’s a load of bull shit and we both know it. I’m going to need hazard pay,” The volus laughed a wheezy laugh, the bar becoming even more silent than before.  
“You serious? What, do you think I gave Potitis back there hazard pay?” The volus gestured back with his thumb-like appendage.  
“Being cold and going toe to toe with 40 angry batarians are two different animals.” The volus sighed.  
“Fine,” The hand went to his face plate. “What else do you want.”  
“Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs. It’s his 1976 album,” Mitch seemed confident in his choice. Lido Shuffle. Lowdown. Jump Street. He could have asked for something with more staying power, like a Chicago album or some Journey but he didn’t want to be greedy.  
“Not a bad choice,” the volus nodded to an associate who disappeared into the back room. Some shuffling could be heard whilst the volus talked with the human in hushed tones. Mitch had a grin on his face, before swiping a napkin and jotting some words down on it in ball point ink. The cassette was slammed placed on the table, it’s plastic wrapping crinkling on the metal. “I think we are done here,” the volus grumbled as he reached to slide the sphere across the table. It didn’t get half way before Mitch stopped it with his hand.  
“I’d think you know me better by now. This is a core. Not some random downloads that could chalk up to laundry arrangements.”  
“Meaning,” the volus was audibly agitated now but curious. The turian was slowly reaching for his carnifex. The human on the far right bore an indignant look  
“Meaning it’s the real deal. Troop movements. Weapons Schematics. Dirty laundry on any person on the Citadel political stage” The group in front of Mitch still looked agitated. This wasn’t going to help. “I’m going to need more.” The human on the right moved forward, drawing his pistol. A haphazard mow hawk adorned his square shaped head, on which two dull eyes rested. He didn’t look happy. The barrel of a predator pistol now rested against Mitch’s head.  
“Jackie Chan here is fucking us over,” There was a sneer to the words.  
“Ah. Race jokes,” Mitch shook his head against the gun. “I’m Japanese you fuckwad. Wrong country.” The volus was processing what was happening, his domed head looking back and forth rapidly. He raised his hand to speak, not before mitch jutted his hand upwards. Out of his sleeve unfolded a compact Phalanx pistol, pointed under the gunman’s chin.  
“Lou, would you kindly lower the gun,” The volus said as flatly as one could say in a Mexican standoff.  
“With all do respect Mr. Kelnar, this is total Bull shit,” the boy’s citadelian accent, a mix of New Yorker with inflections of Midwestern, cracked on the last word.  
“Kid, I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you have. I just want what’s due to me and I’ll be gone,” The word due and gone were emphasized clearly.  
“What do you want Mitch,” The volus spoke neutrally. He didn’t want to piss off Lou. Brain matter stains are hard to clean. Mitch slid the napkin across the table. The volus scoffed.  
“Mitch you are killing me here. That is worth roughly 80,000 credits,” The volus paused. “You know what, you can have it. If this core is as valuable as you say, I’m probably screwing you,” Mitch laughed. The people behind Kelnar followed in suit, leaving Lou standing awkwardly. He lowered the gun in frustration. With a snap of the Volus’s claws, an associate read the napkin and returned with a brown paper bag. Mitch glanced inside and nodded in appreciation.  
“Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” Mitch stood up abruptly, turning towards the door, his rewards tucked under his shoulder. The bar door hissed open, citadel foot traffic passing, unaware of the tension drifting out of the room. Mitch hailed a cab from a transport station, the sky car veering in, in which Mitch took a seat. A swipe of his omni tool gave it his destination, and off it rocketed.  
________________________________________  
The silver canvas sighed on the grating as Mitch stepped out of the sky car. The landing platform was made out of shiny metal, a sharp contrast to the ward he was just in. Nike vandals thwapped against the flooring as he walked to his apartment. It was one of many blocks in the Lower Presidium. They were arranged in small cubes that gave a view of both the other arms and the shops and café’s behind them. This was a place home to mostly government employees or mid-level traders. In short, Mitch blended in quite well. His Chuck Taylors, the paper bag, and the tape were held in one hand as he walked to the door of his apartment. He passed an elderly asari as he walked.  
“Miss D’vere, how was he,” Mitch greeted in a warm neighborly tone.  
“Spock was an absolute deary. I wish I had one that well-mannered,” she laughed in a kindly voice. Miss D’vere was a kind woman that Mitch shared a floor with. She always reminded him of his grandma back on earth.  
“I’m sorry to have to have imposed him on you. Last minute business trips can be quite annoying,” Mitch laughed in response. She waved her hand.  
“No need for apologies Mitch. Anytime. In fact, I just fed him so you should be good for the rest of the day.” Mitch nodded his head in appreciation.  
“Thankyou,” Mitch beamed,  
“No problem,” D’vere said as she walked off with a wave. Mitch continued onwards, opening his door’s biometric lock. It wasn’t standard but it gave him a sense of extra security. The Interior was a one-bedroom apartment. To his right was a modern kitchenette. A cozy living space complete with leather couch and sound system sat to his right. The bedroom was tucked into the corner behind a door, across from it sat a dining table with a few chairs. All of it was warmly lit with incandescent light. He walked to the window, placing his items down on a crash table by the door and throwing his jacket over the couch. A meow could be heard as Spock skittered out from under the dining room table. He was a napoleon cat by breed, his pointy ears giving him his namesake. Mitch leaned down to scratch his chin, the cat purring in response.  
“Yeah, I missed you too buddy,” He baby talked to the feline. Mitch got up and ducked into his near fridge, pulling out a beer. It was a cheaper citadel brew but he didn’t mind. He cracked it open on the counter before walking back to his window. As he took a sip, the door on his apartment unlocked. Mitch spun around. The only way it could open is if the person had his DNA on file, and that was a short list already. It had a password verification that needed to be cracked as well which shrunk the list even further. Mitch reached under his dining room table for a carnifex and unfolded it. Spock’s tail went low and he ducked behind Mitch.  
The door opened and in stepped a man in a plain black suit and white dress shirt. He wore no tie. His darker colored head bore no hair. Military. Mitch glanced to his right arm, a metallic prosthetic that tucked the jacket behind an old west competition holster. In it sat a colt peacemaker. The gun of choice for cowboys of old. The man tucked a pair of sunglasses into his jacket.  
“It’s been a long time mitch,” he spoke in a southern accent, distinctly northern Texas. Mitch new the accent well. It wasn’t going to be a friendly visit.


	3. We Do what We're Told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Hope Ya'll ah had a good one. I spent the past several days milling over this. I needed some creative inspiration in all honestly. However, I do hope you enjoy this chapter. Now that I have gotten this part out of the way, the rest should come pretty easy. I've got stuff storyboarded. With out further adieu...

Mitch and the occupant of his apartment stood across from each other. The light from a window painted a line. Darting across the couch, the apartment was split in two. A line in the sand. The man adorned in a suit’s hand hovered idly over the colt. Mitch was already holding his sidearm. This wouldn’t give him any advantage in a draw. The man in front of him could draw in a fraction of a second and make up the difference in firing. A stalemate of wills had been reached. The silence was broken by the man. 

“I’m not going to have to drag you out of here am I. The chairman would be pissed” The southern twang rang out. There was no gentlemanly warmth to it. It was sharp. So sharp it cut into Mitch. 

“He sent you then,” mitch summarized, “I thought I made it pretty clear I walked away,” mitch chuckled awkwardly in an attempt to defuse. It did nothing. The man’s face didn’t change.

“You don’t walk away from the firm Mitch. You know this.” The man stood firm in that statement. 

“After Monte Carlo-” Mitch began to interject but ironically was halted. 

“Monte Carlo was a shit show. You and I both know this. It doesn’t change anything,” If one looked closely it was as if a fire burned in the man’s eyes. A fire that had to do with the two words. “Assets come and go. When that happens they are liquidated.” 

“Spare me the exposition. I know what you mean. I’ve done it plenty myself. Same as you,” The man stepped back. It was very slight, but it was there. “This isn’t liquidation. I’d be dead already. What does he want,” mitch cocked his head. 

“One more job.”

“Then?” 

“I’m assuming you’re free. I’d talk with the chairman first,” Mitch sighed and looked down. 

“Fuck it. My calendar is clear anyways,” he chuckled. The man grinned, not out of malice but of recognition. This was the mitch he knew. He walked towards the door, swiping his artificial hand. It hissed open and the suited man walked out. 

“There’s a car outside,” he yelled and gave a little wave, the hydraulics in his hand whirring. Mitch stood looking blankly ahead for a second before shaking out of it. He grabbed his jacket followed the man out, locking his door behind him. 

The skycar was jet black. It’s sleek, swooping design was characteristic of the latest model. The firm spared no expense. The suited man opened it up, the singular window chattering open into three pieces. It was autopilot, with a seating area plastered with leather. In the center sat a mini bar and information console, a guidance system of sorts. Sitting inside was an asari, wearing a similar fitted suit to the intruder of Mitch’s apartment. The suited human climbed in, mitch following in suit. The car’s doors hissed shut, auto pilot taking control. The asari focused on the mini bar, a blue haze enveloping a glass and a bottle of whiskey. Both were lifted in the air. A drink was poured, the glass going to her open hand and the bottle resting back in its original position. 

“So this is the famous Mitch Monroe,” she said with a lowery face. Her attention turned to the other occupant. “Explain to me again why we were pulled off assignment to drag this guy out of retirement,” her disdain was vocal to say the least. 

“The Chairman wants to speak with him,” He spoke quickly, his eyes darting over to her. She said something she shouldn’t have. 

“Pulled off of assignment,” Mitch thought to himself. That was certainly odd. However, he chalked it off as the chairman needing a familiar face. The car became mostly silent, the whirring of the engine and the occasional whoosh of a passing sky car being the only sounds. 

“You the guy who pulled off the job on Sur’kesh a few years back,” the asari asked casually, leaning into the seating. 

“Don’t believe the stories kid,” the man in the suit spoke up. He produced a rolled cigarette, the artificial thumb flipping open, revealing a lighter. He took a drag, the smoke drifting out of his nostrils idly. Mitch chuckled to himself. That was a wild month. 

A tower came into view. The car had passed quite close to the presidium, the ring which housed embassies being visible. It veered off to the right towards the tower, blending in with citadelean architecture. It swooped upwards, before its stabilizing jets positioned the hunk of metal on a landing pad. The window opened up again, the suited man stepping out and greeting an armed guard. His armor suggested private military, with swooping black complete with an umbra visor. Fancy stuff. He turned to mitch. 

“He’s waiting for you inside,” he said whilst walking backwards. Together, they walked across a catwalk, the industrial metal fading into sleek modern architecture. A set of doors hissed open, Franz Liszt Liebestraum greeting them. It was a long corridor, constructed with polished metal walls and rosewood floors. Pieces of art were adorned on marble pedestals, 3 on each side. The closest to the door was the the statue Winged Victory of Samothrace. A greek statue. It wasn’t just expensive, it was ungodly expensive. On other pedestals sat chunks of prothean ruin, an early salarian skeleton, and a set of bronze age turian armour. At the end of this corridor sat a several meter long table, as white as the pedestals. A snaking medical tube ran to a bank of machines in a glass case. The other end ran to a salarian’s nose holes. His skin was weathered, the coppery green showing a multitude of wrinkles. He wore a loose fitting silk robe and was working on a plate of Frailhead fish, caught off the coast of surkesh’s largest continent. He turned his jet black eyes to mitch, a smile creeping across his face. There was no warmth to it. 

“Mitch dear boy,” he removed the medical tube and stood up, walking over to him. His accent was peculiar. It was as if he was imitating an english dialect. He turned his head to the suited man, who now stood slightly more militaristically. “You are dismissed Joseph.” Joseph’s face was indignant for half a second, but was shut down by a glare. He walked out with his head hung low. The salarian turned back to Mitch, snaking his three fingered hand on his back and guiding him over to the table. “It is wonderful to see you again.” Mitch’s face was blank. It was like he saw a ghost. They both sat down, the salarian resuming his meal and reattaching his tube. Mitch slouched awkwardly in the hard composite chair. 

“What do you want Chairman,” Mitch’s tone was sour, as was his look. His eyes narrowed in on The Chairman, who still held onto the grin. He put on a face of mock offense. 

“What, can I not have dinner with one of my best,” he paused, waiting for the word to come to him, “associates?” 

“It’s not your style. You have a job for me,” Mitch’s tone didn’t change. He was pissed, sure. But he kept his cool. It was never a good idea to really piss off the chairman. 

“Joseph told you then,” the salarian looked away in frustration. 

“Not everything. Just that this is it,” the salarian looked confused. 

“Meaning,” His hands moved and eyes widened in confusion. 

“I’m done after this.” There was no pause between what mitch said and what the salarian said next. 

“Fair enough,” The Chairman waved his omni tool and a cylindrical object ross from the center of the table. A slot in it shot a folder at mitch, whilst the top revealed a holo projection. It was eerily similar. A black tube with unknown script. 

“Hey, thats-” 

“The object you stole from the batarians. We know.” 

“How did you even get it,” mitch asked confused. He just gave it away. 

“Who do you think the buyer was,” The salarian spoke smugly. Mitch overplayed his hand.   
“The real question is...why should I care,” Mitch theatrically spoke. 

“It isn’t batarian. It is something far more dangerous,” there was a seriousness to this, unlike everything the Salarian had said up to this point. His voice garbled on the last syllable, a salarian accent almost showing through. He was nervous. 

“It’s in your possession already. What does it matter,” Mitch confusedly thought to himself. 

“You made a lot of noise getting that object. The Batarians tried to keep it hushed, but any information dealer worth their salt would have heard about a black site being raided outside of batarian controlled space. 

“Your point Chairman,” Mitch slide the folder around in a circle, without breaking eye contact. The Chairman was beginning to bore him. He had half a mind to leave. Go back to his apartment. But that would cause undue stress for both parties. 

“The list of people able to break into batarian servers is small. People able to track such a device is even smaller. Lastly, the list of people able to break the device brings the total down to,” the salarian drummed his hands on the table in an uncharacteristic display of juvenilism, “One.”

“Ah,” the pieces were beginning to come together in Mitch’s head. They needed a particular version of Mitch, “You want me to kill whoever it is you are referring to. I won’t do it.” The salarian grinned, despite being rejected. 

“Come on,” he scoffed. “You can’t tell me that Mitch Monroe is dead. The Mitch who could get in and out, leaving nothing but an obituary,” Mitch leaned in even further, his eyes glaring. 

“I can’t be that guy for you anymore,” his tone was hoarse. He was choking back something. Not tears. Mitch wasn’t the crying sort. It was anger. 

“You know what I believe mitch,” The salarian snapped two of his three fingers. A panel on the metal door hissed open, and in clunked a servant mech, complete with bowtie. It carried a singular glass with red liquid. It was rested next to The Chairman who took a sip, puckering his wrinkled lips. “This is damn good wine. It’s asari believe it or not. 340 years old.” He had a smug look on his face, but saw no reaction from Mitch. “Anyone can be anything under the right circumstances. A rich man can become a criminal. A criminal can change their ways. I bet you, under the right circumstances, can kill again. What do you want then. Money? Obscure bits of junk from your childhood?” 

“I want to be left alone. To know I can live without thinking Joseph will bust in my apartment and hold me at gunpoint,” Mitch laughed. It was utilitarian in nature. The Chairman followed in suit.

“That can be arranged. Clean slate.” He asked to which mitch nodded. “This is it Mitch. The last one. You do this for us and we leave you alone. I might even throw in some parting money as a gesture of good will. Hundred thousand,” Mitch shook his head. 

“I don’t want your blood money Chairman. Just tell me about the job.” The salarians eyes lit up like fireworks on the fourth of july back home. 

“Hot damn,” he clapped his hands in emphasis. If you look in your folder there you will see your information. Mitch flicked it open, revealing one sheet of paper. It was a standard id sheet. However, it was mostly blank save the nickname section and last known location. 

“I’ve worked with less before but my god,” mitch sounded exasperated. 

“They operate under the alias Memento. They are good. Too good,” The chairman sounded frustrated in this. 

“If they are good then how do you have a last known location,” Mitch cocked his head 

“Four months back they tried to get into an asari testing site on Illium. Real hushed up stuff. They missed a redundancy and triggered a security measure. Memento shut it off quick, quicker than any of our tech teams could have but we got a fragment,” The chairman almost sounded giddy. 

“Meaning?” 

“We got a corporate code. They were doing it from inside a company’s server room. Probably for a boost in processing power. It was smart except for one thing,” \

“It narrowed the list,” an unknown voice jutted in. Out of the shadows stepped the asari from before. The salarian looked up, a look of annoyance plastered on his face. 

“How pleasant of you to join us Airizia,” a snarky smile was all she had to add before swiping her omni tool to change the object projection from object to an office building.

“North Star Technologies is a cybersecurity corporation specialising in outsourcing, mainly to the Asari Government, Turian Hierarchy, and occasionally The Alliance,” she spoke smugly. “We have done a bit of recon. The building houses nearly 2800 employes, small for an Illium superstructure but a pain in the ass nonetheless.” 

“What did you narrow it down to,” Mitch spoke flatly, being as professional as humanly possible. He didn’t want to tick her off. Biotics plus a kukri sheathed inside her coat would not be a fun combo for him.

“Only one department has access to this particular server room. We couldn’t get access logs but that narrows it down quite significantly.” 

“Not bad,” Mitch was impressed. Half the job was tracking down the target. That part always annoyed him. He wasn’t an impatient person per say. It just irked him for some reason. “So what’s the play,” he asked. It was the first time he uttered those words in this context in several years. This time The Chairman chimed in. 

“We set you up with a perfect identity and resume. You show up via shuttlecraft. Less paperwork,” His words were fast now, the age old salarian speedy thinking coming to fruition. “You get a job in the department and ingrain yourself in the community. Make friends and all that malarkey. From within, you will identify Memento and eliminate them. I don’t care about method as long as it is quiet. We can’t have this getting out.”

“Easy enough,” Mitch said, his levels of confidence rising. This was an easy sweep job. It wasn’t his first. 

“They run a tight ship,” Airizia butted in again. “You can poke around sure, but the company has some killer security. You’ll need to watch yourself.” Mitch snickered. 

“When don’t I?” 

“We have booked you a ship to illium leaving in the morning. Pack light. We will provide any equipment. In addition, Joseph and Airzia will be on planet, god forbid you need anything.” The details looked good to Mitch. It all seemed pretty standard. 

“Okay then,” Mitch hid his nausea about killing another person behind the wall of monotone voice and locked eyes. To the viewer not paying attention, he looked more interested than anything. But this wasn’t the case. Mitch was contemplating his next course of action. Even as he shook the chairman's clammy hands, Mitch’s thoughts didn’t waver from the last time he pulled the trigger, swung a sword or snapped a neck. It seemed alien now. 

“It can’t be once I get to Illium,” he thought to himself. This was going to be a long trip was another thought as the skycar pulled up to his apartment and his nike vandals made contact with the familiar surface. Most importantly of all however, something he thought out loud as soon as the apartment doors hissed shut, 

“What am I bringing for music,” he said with a grin, looking across his apartment at the Citadelian skyline, now twinkling with light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Keep an eye out for the next installment of Return: A Mitch Monroe Story. As always, fell free to leave a comment. This is my first work, and anything helps me better it.


	4. Welcome To The Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. BACK AT IT. WOOOOO. Feels great to be writing again. Y'all are in for a treat. I hope you enjoy.

Transportation ships outbound from Los Angeles weren’t exactly known for silence. They were heaping masses of metal, owned by various trade conglomerates, their square bodies adorned with spray painted logos. Some went to hubs of legal trade like Illium. Others...not so much. In this particular instance, two individuals sat in the underbelly of the ship. It was one of the few non crew areas with life support, as it was transporting live animals in crates and plant specimens. The downside was that there was no noise cancellation. To say the engine was loud would be over exaggerating. However it was annoying. The two individuals, who were sitting on top of crates, didn’t seem to mind. One, a turian in his teen dug into his blue overcoat. It was similar to a cloak, covering a grey and red turian work uniform and his contrasting face colors of black with blue colony markings dashing over his eyes and hooking next to his nose plate. He produced a mason jar candle. It both functioned as light and a bit of warmth. He lit it with a nearly empty green bic lighter, his talons fumbling. The now orange glow reflected out of the glass shown across the aisle. He was another teen, human this time. A strand of jet black hair hung low over his eye. In general he was disheveled. A plain canvas jacket with a The Clash-Combat Rock t shirt, scuffed blue jeans, and a pair of grey Nike Vandals. He was mid conversation, his voice loud enough to go over the speaker but not enough to startle the animals. 

“I’m in the car I told you about,” the turian snapped his talons and pointed back at him. 

“The Ford Pinto,” he asked, his two toned voice rumbling slightly. “You never told me why they arrested you.” 

“I capped a couple of their security mechs. And I may have threatened a police officer,” The boy’s tone was sarcastic, his sentence finishing with a scoff. It was justified that they arrested him. Not where they put him after the fact. 

“Well that makes sense,” the turian said with a twinge of sarcasm. Some more near silenced ensued as the ship chugged through Sol system’s asteroid belt, a narrow strip cleared for passage to a mass relay. 

“So what’s the plan when we get there,” the human leaned back against the metal wall, pulling a rubix cube out of his canvas rucksack. He idly flicked the parts around, not trying to solve it. He just needed something tactile. This would be his first time jumping systems. 

“Before I ended up on earth, I was on Palaven. I think I already made my training pretty clear when we broke out of there. Required military training is a huge deal there.”

“I saw,” the boy thought back to there. New Hope Juvenile Work Home. 300 years since workhouses were a thing, but somehow, they were brought back. It was something straight out of Oliver Twist. The boy was always partial to the version with Obi Wan. He met the turian on his first day there. Three weeks later, they disappeared, leaving one guard dead and two in a coma. One was an accident on the boy’s part. The other two (including a death) were all on the turian. The same turian who jury rigged an emp from parts from the boy’s walkman and machine parts. Who broke into a shipyard with the kid in tow. He knew what he was doing.

“We get to our destination, join up with a merc company and make some creds,” his tone was relaxed, as if it all didn’t sound absurd. “A year or so down the line we go private. Pick and choose our jobs. We make some serious money, jump stations. We could head to the citadel and do private security work. We could do pretty much anything.”

“That’s all well and good Mareus, except one thing,” the human paused to think of the words. “I’ve never fired one of these modern things before,” he dug into his bag again. This time his hand came out clutching a revolver. “I have one box of ammo for this thing. It’s what I swiped from the locker in addition to some choice items. Some tapes. A change of clothes. Back up walkman. My dad’s army knife.” 

“I’ll teach you,” Mareus said with a grin. “There is a bit of a learning curve, but if I could get the hang of it as easily as I did, it shouldn’t be an issue for you. He paused, glancing at the canvas. “What did you bring for music,” Mitch grinned, shuffling through the backpack. The sound of cassettes clattering against each other drowned out the engine for half a second, before he pulled out the plastic rectangle. It contained a compilation by The Smiths. Hatful of Hollow was printed on the flat blue background, coupled with the photograph of Fabrice Colette. He opened up the walkman, sliding the cassette in and clicking it shut. The boy shuffled across the aisle, taking a seat on the box next to mareus. They held both sides of the headphones, the human hitting play. “They are pretty good,” he said as the screaming guitar came in. They both looked out the porthole. The ship approached a massive purple...shape. An orb of blue spun within it.   
“That right there is a mass relay,” the turian said. “We are out of here my friend,” he was laughing now. Mareus had been there for years. A look of relief was lit up by the blue light of the relay. Even though his facial expressions were far from human, the human could tell.

A tendril of blue locked onto the ship, the engines gunning faster now. 

“I am human and I need to belong,” Morrissey sang out, the reactor now drowned out. An even louder sound blurred in, a low whooshing, rattling the ship as the relay disappeared. A blur of white lines, the human guessing stars washed over him. 

It just hit him now. He was leaving earth. His old world was gone. This was the first time anyone from his generation had been out past the moon, let alone a whole nother star system. It was like he couldn't breathe. Earth wasn’t going anywhere, sure. But this was just so alien to him. He wanted to vomit. 

“It gets easier,” Mareus said, his eyes darting over. “I did this dozens of times with my parents,” The eyes locked against the wall of the ship, piercing through. He was looking off into a wide space, despite being trapped in a room 7 feet in length. 

The blur stopped. The cargo freighter rattled to a halt, parts shaking. They were in a new system. Mareus muttered something under his breath. It didn’t translate for the human, sounding like a jumble of letters to the effect of Sahrabarik. The ship chugged on past a red counterpart to the relay, sending a sinister shiver down the human’s spine. Then nothing. Only the light of an orange star reflected off of the window. Then it happened. The ship passed an asteroid, at least at first glance. It veered back in on docking course, revealing a long tube snaking downwards, ports jutting off the side. The turian got up as the song came to an instrumental bridge. It’s signature thunderous chord intermixed with whistling as Maereus looked back from the asteroid. It’s red glow blended into the black faceplate, making his face look like one solid color. 

“Omega. The World Without Law,” his mandibles flared slightly, mouth plates turning into a grin. “It’s gonna be ours Mitch. All of it.” 

 

 

A man’s eyes snapped open, taking in a sharp breath. He sat in a leather chair on a luxury shuttle. They were similar to airplanes of old, two rows, two seats in depth, stretching to a cockpit. He rolled his shoulders, leaning forward, before collapsing back into his seat. 

“First time going through a relay,” the scattered, rapid fire tonality plus a slight nasalisation meant salarian. The man looked over to his left. Sure enough, he was right. He had the complexion of an olive, and a jet black suit to contrast it. He was leaning slightly on the wall of the window seat. 

“No. Could never get over it though,” a Utah accent breached through, pronouncing it with a slight uht. 

“Is it before or after that bothers you,” the salarian asked. 

“Oh usually after. I get a bit jittery,” He thought to himself of the jitters. They weren’t terrible, more just annoying. Probably the side effect of being launched faster than the speed of light. All the inertial dampeners, built into the ship and prescribed medication couldn’t alleviate this. Sure, it was most of the way gone by the time docking clearance cleared. Didn’t stop it from bothering him though. 

“For a human of your size…” the salarian paused. “Two glasses of gin and a hot shower. The order doesn’t really matter.” 

“Next you are gonna tell me to make fists with my toes on the carpet of wherever I end up.” 

“I’m not joking man. Relays always bothered me. Picked up the trick from a pharmaceutical saleswoman odly enough. It should work mister…” The human reached out to shake his hand. 

“Monroe. Mitch Monroe. You are?” 

“Raeji Sarstan,” the three fingered hand gripped Mitch’s. 

“Well Raeji, what are your plans on Illium,” Mitch leaned back into his seat and glanced out the ship's window. There was a queue of five ships, waiting to launch out. It was one of the busiest mass relays ever, after all. 

“Starting a medical practice,” he leaned towards Mitch, “Tell me, do you know how many salarian doctors there are on the citadel?”

“I’m assuming a lot,” Mitch chuckled. The salarian pointed at him with emphasis. 

“Exactly. I get a medical degree from one of the most prestigious schools on Sur’Kesh, graduate in the top five of my class, and the only place I can find work is on Emergency Rotation in the wards. Don’t get me wrong, i’m no snob, but patching up gunshot wounds 12 hours a day isn’t the most rewarding,” a grin of annoyance was plastered on the salarians face. 

“I’d imagine,” Mitch said, watching the queue dwindle down to their ship and a cargo freighter in front of them. He blinked in surprise before looking back at the salarian. “Wait, did a doctor just recommend me to alcohol for relay sickness?” The salarian chuckled and shushed him, doing the universal sign of zipping one's lips.

“What about you,” the salarian said as he took a datapad out of a canvas satchel amd swiped up. 

“I’m looking for someone.” Mitch’s casual demeanor had rapidly disappeared. Even the Salarian, who was now glancing at the datapad glanced over. He looked worried for half a second. 

“Ooooh. Mysterious,” The salarian belly laughed heartily. Mitch hadn’t seen a lot of salarians laugh, and even fewer like that. 

“You could say that,” The human cocked his head to the side in mock agreement. His tone cooled,akin to a rockstar in a press interview. The ship pulled up towards the relay, clearance tags being checked and a destination being logged. The engines gunned with noticeable force. Not as much as The Inferno. This was commercial craft. They didn’t have bootleg turian engines. Just standard stuff probably from Elkoss. Even so, Mitch and his companion rocked back into their seat as a blue tentacle locked on to the body, slinging it forward into nothing. The familiar blur of stars ensued, bathing the dark cabin in white streaking light. In an instant it was gone, black space, light dimly by stars in far off systems. The ship rotated, a massive gas giant coming into view. Its ivory rings became larger as the ship hummed past. Idle conversation filled the ship. I looked over to the salarian, who was neck deep in contract negotiations. Would be rude to bother him. So Mitch looked dead ahead. A bit of queasiness overtook him. That was expected. He shook it off the best he could, but that didn’t stop the jitters. He anxiously tapped the arm guard next to him, looking off into space. A noticeable glow of the system's star reflected off the window. Before mitch knew it, the ship had entered orbit around the garden world. It had been three...no four years since he had been to Illium. Like now, it was business. He was only there for a day. Research lab on the hot surface. Trekking through the jungle wasn’t fun, especially in 33 degree centigrade weather. And that was at night. The ship taxied in, a brief bright orange glow enveloping the ship, as they broke atmo. An impressive skyline stuck out of the ground, almost touching the clouds. A dome shaped building setback from the buildings, a cluster of tram lines connecting it to the city. The ship hovered down to a docking tube, the landing gear touching asphalt with a chunk. The pod connected, hissing to break the airlock seal. A feedback buzz filled the cabin as the pilot keyed in. 

“Thank You for choosing Unitech Spaceway. Due to our polar position, outside is a cool 56 degrees fahrenheit. Hope y'all brought a jacket,” her southern accent was distinct. Native earther. She went on to run through the usual stuff. Seat belt light is off, Comms can be used, etc. Mitch stood up, rolling his neck before reaching up to open the overhead compartment. His jacket lifted up, revealing a dual chest holster, phalanx compacts holstered on either side. The salarian glanced up, noticing casually, before glancing up again in surprise. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s for who i’m looking for,” Mitch flashed a smirk before making the universal shushing signal. A finger pointed at the sky placed over his lips. The salarian looked a bit concerned, but shook his head and went back to his data pad. Mitch slung a canvas backpack over his shoulder and strolled out of the shuttle, scooting between people. It was the jitters. He just wanted to get out of there. The grey docking tube became a standard spaceport terminal. There were a few people waiting in rowed seating by a large window, most likely for the flight out. People streamed out behind him as Mitch strolled past an airport bar and a luggage shop, their neon lights reflecting off of his members only jacket. At the end of this long corridor of terminals sat a row of several escalators. The further he got from that terminal, the more dense the crowds became. They weren’t huge mind you, but enough that it was as if Mitch disappeared from view. He emerged downstairs, as if he teleported, a saunter to his step and a disinterested look plastered across his face. He hated commercial flying and the ports that went along with it. He didn’t mind The Inferno as much because it was his ship. He could get around airport security. There were no video screens blaring out adverts. But most importantly, he could avoid his destination. 

Baggage claim. Any way you cut it, any port you go to, it will always be the same. And by the same, a complete and utter cluster fuck. A sea of travelers obscured the carousels. The massive Krogan's towering over the other races. If they were coral, the krogan would be reef breaks, shoving their way through. The majority however was a sea of blues, purples, and the occasional green. It was an asari port afterall. Still, the occasional piece of turian fringe or hanar tentacle stuck out of the chaos. Mitch sighed to himself as he produced a pair of tortoise clubmasters. The lenses were clear. Once there was contact, there was a hum of a heads up display feed powering up. The casio that doubled as an omni band lit up, a disc hovering around his palm. With one finger he swiped, a range of options flying by before he decided. “Track RFID”. He punched in the code, a light now blinking in the corner of the lense. 200 meters. He rolled his shoulders, sliding the omni tool back to the music library. He didn’t download a lot of music. He had all the analog he needed. But he needed something to drown out the noise. A pounding baseline drowned out the crowd as Policy of Truth blared in. It was outside of his post 86 rule but he allowed it for this instance. 

“You had something to hide. Should have hidden it shouldn’t you,” Mitch walked through the crowd, his shoulder bumping into the occasional pedestrian. The shute on the carousel could now be made out. The RFID was moving opposite of him. It moved so slow it could almost be construed as on purpose. He elected to stand, hands in pockets. 

“It’s too late to change events. It’s time to face the consequence,” his bag passed by his ankle. It was leather, a single patch embroidered on the side. It was sloth from The Goonies. Behind him an asari practically latched onto a drell in a red muscle shirt, embracing. Mitch shook his head, muttering Illium under his breath. He walked with it at his side, a tram arriving at one of its ports. It would only be two minutes into the city, so he decided to stand by a window. A few more followed. A salarian. A krogan in a white and red body suit. The one that stuck out to him the most was the asari. She wore a business suit, the outline of a kukri under her coat. Her eyes locked with his, a look of indignation on his face, his lower lip jutted out in disgust. “Not even a moment to myself,” he thought to himself as the tram rocketed off. A sunset was sinking beginning to sink below the super structures. 

“Never again is what you swore. The time before,” The sunglasses transitioned to black, detecting the uv radiation. The song crescendoed as the tram pulled in to it’s designated port. He stepped out, glancing over to the asari standing up. The whole ride he could feel her gaze burning into the back of his skull. He shook off the heebeegeebees, ascending a staircase reminiscent of grand central station. He passed a tourist kiosk as well as some techno music emanating from a pair of speakers. Finally, he reached the set of auto doors. The glass spun with an impressive amount of precision before opening.

In the grand scale of things, he was like an ant. A miniscule creature. The superstructures towered around him, massive in scope. The asari sped walk past him, her shoulder colliding with his. He felt the unmistakable shape of a flip phone being deposited in his hand.  
“Good luck,” she said without breaking stride, walking off towards a waiting skycar. Mitch had barely enough time to scoff to himself before a digital tune came from his occupied hand. He flicked it open, answering the call.

“Enjoy the flight Mitch,” an all to familiar southerner spoke. Joseph took a bite of what mitch presumed to be some sort of burger, the paper crumpling against the microphone, coupled with a wet crunch.

“Little analog don't you think,” he looked around, his eyes narrowing behind the glasses.

“You don’t exist before you stepped off that tram. Everything is wiped. As far as you are concerned...you aren’t you,” he explained through another ravenous bite.

“No digital?”

“Bingo. This is the only way we talk from now on. The last thing we need is your new identity,” he paused for emphasis, “which took very long mind you, to be sullied by making an omni call to a suspected member of an even more rumorous organization.”

“Appreciate the tail by the way,” mitch looked around again. Joseph sighed.

“Oh for christs sake,” he said to himself. Computer keys could be heard clicking, an rfid beeping on the upper corner of his lens. Mitch looked up, a slightly stubbier superstructure. The glasses zoomed in, enough to see a small figure of a man waving with one hand. “If we are gonna talk, do it right,” he was laughing now, pausing this time for a sip of a carbonated beverage. He retched, cursing to himself about hating flat soda. 

“Had to make sure I wouldn’t run?”

“Yeah. Million places you can go from Illium.”

“What now,”

“Now,” he groaned as if leaning over to check something. “You go to your new place. Have a file there for you. Coverstory. The usual shit.”

“Anything else,” mitch asked flatter than the beverage Joseph sipped.

“Have fun man. You’ve been out of the game for a while,” the tone was relaxed. Almost friendly. An icy layer of sinister undercut it though. Akin to a breeze traveling up a spine. 

Almost theatrically on queue, an automated skycar pulled up, resting in front of mitch. The door opened in one solid piece, beckoning him. Mitch obliged. 

 

 

The nike vandals slapped against the hard mock granite flooring. Low salarian tube jazz drifted lazily through the hallway. Woodland Crest Apartments was asari run. They manly catered to higher level employees of the surrounding superstructures as well as the occasional dignitary. Mitch’s apartment was at the far end. A corner room. 900 square feet. Office space. A kickass view. All pretty damn sweet. He had had to stay in some shitholes before on assignment. This was a good change of pace. 

His omni automatically opened the door, the setting sun streaming from the window to his right. To the left sat an eating nook sat. To his right was a living area. A vidscreen sat across from a well worn light leather couch. Behind it was a kitchen. Standard stuff. Electric appliances, an island doubling as counter space. Stools. He looked down at the hardfloor. This wasn’t mock stuff either. This was the real fucking deal. “What starting tech employee has real hardwood floors,” he thought to himself. He wasn’t complaining. Just was a funny oversight. He walked past the kitchen, an office sitting behind it. It was pretty barebones, but had a corkboard. They did get one thing right in there: a wing chun dummy. Pegboards and all. To his left was the half bath. He prefered showering anyway. At the end was his bedroom. A real closet. King sized bed. A lot of muted black with some mahogany end tables. Not bad.

Mitch dropped his duffel at the foot of his bed. The jacket wa pulled over his shoulders, revealing the Rush t shirt and a chest rig. He kicked off the almost 200 year old sneakers without a thought, making contact with a dull thump on the wood floor. The holsters went over his head and onto the bed.

The first stop was the shower, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he walked to the bathroom. The water from the rain shower head dropped at first before the water pressure caught up. It became a torrent. Mitch stepped in, letting the water hit his back. It felt like an eternity. His knees stopped jittering. The shower autodried him, fans blowing in from the sides, water slipping away. A towel was wrapped around his waist as he walked to the kitchen, pouring a glass of Caorunn gin. He took the bottle with him as he sat down on the couch. The first glas went down fast. He poured another as he took a file off the coffee table. A post it note was scribbled on. “Look down -J PS. Welcome Back.”

Mitch did, the boxy form of a Nakamichi Bx-125 and a pair of speakers. The best tape decks on the market. He hurried over to a small table under the window, hurriedly plugging the machine into the wall. The wires from the speakers snaked to the back of the deck. It was ready. He snapped his fingers before darting off into the other room, emerging back in the living room with a copy of The Clash. Combat Rock. The cassette door opened with a chunk, the hydraulics squeaking from inactivity. It was placed in. The button pressed. Play. There was a pause as he sat back down. The opening drum of Rock The Casbah coupled with a upbeat pianio filled the room. He flipped open the folder. First name blank. Last name Faraldo. Old eezo family out of the midwest. That was already in his favor. They had like a million kids and cousins. He could pass as one if he did it right. There was list of qualifications. He paused before looking up with a grin. He had a good idea, as the politically charged chorus blared in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta have those cliffhangers. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this installment. Any feedback helps me bettering this story. As always...see you soon folks. Have a great week. Stay WARM!!!!!


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